Lionheart's Scribe by Karleen Bradford Page B

noise and shouting everywhere. Trumpets blared, mingled with clarions and flutes. People poured down to the harbor where our ships were docking. They sang and they danced and they threw garlands and nosegays of flowers. Then King Richard appeared on deck in the most resplendent attire I have seen yet, and I thought the people would go mad with cheering. He strode on shore, followed closely by Queen Berengaria and Queen Joanna. Queen Berengaria looked frightened. Behind them trailed Yusra, looking even more frightened. Father Aimar had his hand on her shoulder. I suppose it was to guide her, but I wonder whether it might also have been there to keep her from running away—although where they expected her to run to I cannot imagine.
    All during the time we unloaded the ships and set up camp the festivities increased. Indeed, they are still going on even as I write this. I must stop now though and try to sleep. I have been given a small tent not too far from the king’s own pavilion. Now that we are here and settled, I will most likely be called to work tomorrow and I must be fresh and alert.
    But how am I supposed to sleep with all this excitement? I cannot wait to see what the morrow will bring.
    The ninth day of June
    Where to begin? Where I left off last night, I suppose, but there is so much to tell my hand is cramping at the very thought of it. I must write it down, however. What I have seen today I must not forget.
    I was called by one of King Richard’s men just as the dawn was breaking. I had not slept a wink, of course. I do not think the king had slept either, as he was dressed just as I had seen him yesterday and had a stubble of beard on his chin. Very unusual this was for him. He is always most meticulous in his habits. Nonetheless, he was brighter and more awake than I. To my horror I even yawned as I knelt to greet him, but I think I covered it up well enough with a cough.
    The tent was filled with people. I recognized many of the nobles of Ôutremer. They looked decidedly unhappy. Then I saw the king’s senior scribe, Bertrand. I have seen him before, of course, but he is much more grand than I and did not deign to acknowledge my existence. He was seated at a plank that served as a table and was busily writing.
    â€œI am having a notice written,” the king thundered. He looked annoyed. “A proclamation. It seems our good King Philip is offering three gold bezants to any man who will follow him. I distrust his motives and do not intend to let him build up a force larger than my own.” He gestured to me. “You will help write it. I need all the copies we can make as quickly as possible.”
    I pulled out my quills and ink and made ready.
    There was no room at the table where Bertrand worked, and I would not have dared to join him in any case, but I spied a trunk nearby him. I made room for myself on it and spread out a parchment. What joy it is to write on finely cured parchment instead of smelly, rough skins!
    â€œWrite!” the king commanded, and I did. “‘The king of England will pay
four
gold bezants to any knight of any nationality who would take service under his banner.’ Make as many copies as you can, in all the languages you boasted you could.” He glared at me from under bushy golden eyebrows. I dropped my eyes, gulped for air, became immediately busy and promptly blotted a parchment. Thanks be to heaven he didn’t see, but turned to the other men who waited on him.
    â€œTwo years!” His voice filled the tent. “Two years this impossible stalemate has lasted.” He strode back and forth from one side of the pavilion to the other, slapping at his thigh with a leather gauntlet. He was glowering at the men so hard that he nearly ran me down. I ducked just in time as he veered off. A servant bearing wine was not quite so fortunate. The king walked right into him and the wine cascaded onto the floor. The poor fellow lost his wits